


A Slow Fade

by voleuse



Category: Alias
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-06
Updated: 2005-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-04 10:29:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She misses her garden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Slow Fade

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 2.12.

They don't stay in any one place for long.

They're not on the run, Arvin explains to her patiently. They're just being careful.

She understands he's made many enemies, partly for her sake. And, for the most part, she doesn't mind jumping from country to country every few weeks.

The Philippines. North Korea. Australia. Chile. Ecuador. Iceland. Portugal.

They're all beautiful countries, but she misses the small, simple things of her previous life.

She misses her garden.

*

 

They fly to Paris, drive out to Versailles. Arvin says he has an important meeting in the city, but he wants to keep her close, keep her comfortable.

Emily settles into their hotel room, revels in the cool silk of the sheets on their bed.

Arvin leaves late in the afternoon, places a reverent kiss against her forehead.

"I'll be back in the morning," he says. "You'll be safe here."

She keeps a smile on her face until he's gone.

She hadn't even thought about keeping safe.

Now she feels anything but.

Breathe out, breathe in.

She picks up the phone and orders room service.

*

 

The moon rises, and Emily sips her glass of wine.

Sits in the window and doesn't feel any chill.

She wants Arvin to come back, because he's all she has left of home.

Something scratches against her window, and she startles back.

It's just a branch.

She sets down her glass, pries open the window.

On the trellis beside her window, there are roses growing. She hadn't noticed it because it's only just blooming.

Under the night sky, she can barely make out the color of the petals. They might be white, or a pale pink.

She reaches her arm out, and the tips of her fingers whisper against the blossom. Then she reaches too far, snags her thumb against a thorn.

She hisses, draws back.

There's a perfect drop of blood welling from the small wound.

She thinks to clean the cut, soothe the sting. But she doesn't.

She leans back against the frame of the window and stares at the blood on her hand.

She thinks she can smell the roses, but knows it's probably her imagination.

She wills the morning to come.


End file.
